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Finch: Feeding Birds
Warning: non-explicit uncomfortable sexual themes Finch opened the window and recoiled from the stench wafting up from inside. The smell of dead things, he realized, his hand moving to his belt knife. He dropped in, knife held up in guard position and his other hand raised to zap any attackers. He let both sink when he saw the body. “Larkin!” Finch sheathed the knife and hurried over to her cot, giving the corpse next to is a once-over to make sure it wouldn’t be moving. Larkin was naked, lying curled up on her side and facing the wall. There was blood all over her and the sheets, and Finch couldn’t tell if any of it was hers. He dropped to one knee next to the cot. She turned her head to look at him then, her eyes seeming to stare right through him. “What the fuck, man?” Finch said. “What the fuck happened? Are you alright?” His hand hovered over her for a moment, because she was still fucking naked and Finch wasn’t sure if he could touch her. But fuck, Larkin wasn’t answering and he needed to make sure she wasn’t hurt. He patted her side, where most of the blood was. It felt intact. The blood was slick and still lukewarm. He stopped a moment, thinking, then got up to grab a blanket and wrap it around her before sitting down on Larkin’s cot and pulling her into his lap. “It’s okay,” he said, trying to sound soothing while he ran his hands over her neck and back searching for injuries. “He’s dead, I’m here. Not gonnna let a fucker hurt you.” Larkin shifted in his arms and swatted at his hand weakly. Her eyes were locked on the corpse. “Stop it,” she mumbled, but Finch barely heard. He caught her hand and turned her arm to look for cuts or bruises. “Stop it,” Larkin said again and then, because he still wasn’t fucking done, shouted, “Fucking stop! Get your fucking hands off me! Stop!” She shoved at him, weakly but clearly with all the strength she had. She snarled, teeth bared. Finch did stop then. He held up both hands defensively. “Sorry. Sorry.” Larkin stared at him wide-eyed and unmoving, then seemed to realize something and slumped where she sat. She pulled the blanket up around herself, chin sunken to her chest. “Hey, fuckin’-” Finch reached out to pat her but hesitated. He eyed the body on the floor. Naked as well, with only one stocking on, and dark, half-clotted blood leaking from several stab wounds in his side. The knife responsible lay in the puddle next to him. Next to a piece of underwear. Finch followed the trail of clothing with his eyes until it dawned on him. “Fuck,” he muttered. He turned back to Larkin, making as if to hug her but not daring. “Hey, Lark,” he said, voice soft. ”Buddy. Did you… did he fucking-” Finch broke off, couldn’t bring himself to say it. Larkin sat staring at her bare knees sticking out between the blanket folds. She slowly shook her head. “He didn’t wanna stop.” It was so quiet Finch had to lean in to hear. “I said-” she grit her teeth. “I said… I fucking told him. To stop. I told him to stop. He fucking didn’t.” “Hey, hey,” Finch shushed her and put his hands to her shoulders, testing if she’d let him. Larkin didn’t react, so he pulled her to his chest where she buried her face in his shirt, blanket clutched to her tightly. “Fuck, Lark, I’m… fucking sorry,” Finch said into her hair. “I didn’t… I wanted to be here earlier but-” “It’s not your fucking fault.” Larkin cut him off. She shook her head, still down and pressed against Finch’s chest. He hugged her tighter. “I hooked up with him ‘cause I counted on you being gone the whole night.” She let out a tight, bitter laugh. Finch growled lowly. He shifted both of them until he could reach the body and kicked its head. Larkin watched, then snorted. “I got stood up,” Finch said. “Job’s canceled.” He could’ve gone back when their contact hadn’t shown up but he hadn’t. Instead, he’d gone to drink and have some fucking fun at his favorite fucking bar. While his partner… “Fuck.” “Yeah.” They sat in silence for a while. Now that the rush of panic wore down, Finch began to smell the stink again. Sweat and blood and, of course, piss. Why did corpses always have to fucking do that? “We gotta get rid of him,” Finch said. He glanced at the guy again. Mask, why had he to be fucking naked? He couldn’t stop staring at his ass. Was like a fucking carriage crash. Finch shook it off and shifted to get up. Larkin let go of him and straightened, too, swallowing hard a few times and wiping at her face with a corner of the blanket. “Get me my clothes,” she said. Finch paused, already bent over to pull the body by his legs, head turned to avoid the sight in front of him. “Don’t mind,” he said, “I’ll take care of it. You, uh… you get some rest? Alright?” He cringed a bit. It was rare to see Larkin like this, fucking- cracked open. Weak and not trying to cover it. Made him fucking uncomfortable, because he didn’t know how to deal with it. Larkin seemed to be regaining her composure, however, because when he looked back to her, she gave him her signature eye roll. “Finch. I’m fucking naked. Gimme my damn clothes.” He stared for a second, then dropped the legs. “Yeah. Right. Fuck.” Finch collected the clothing, not bothering to try and distinguish between hers and the guy’s, and tossed them to her. When she was dressed, Larkin got up and walked over to slip her hands under the arms of the corpse and hoist it up as best she could. Finch hurried to take the legs and together, they carried the man over to the window. Getting him up and out took some struggling but eventually, they got him onto the roof. Larkin kicked him and he rolled down into the crook where their roof met the next. “And what do we do now?” Finch asked. They stood side by side, looking down at their work. Larkin scowled and spat on the body. “Fucking nothing.” “Nothing? We just leave him here?” “Yeah.” “And then what? Wait until the birds have picked him clean, or what?” Larkin didn’t answer right away but turned and left. “Why not,” she then said, clambering back over to their window. “Let’s feed ‘em. I like birds.” Category:Larkin Category:Finch Category:Vignettes